


Fixing It, In Fact

by lyricalsoul



Series: Mycroft's In Love [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Helpful!Anthea, Lestrade angst, M/M, Mycroft Angst, everybody loves Mycroft, multiple POVs, mystrade, who was that unnamed man?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Six weeks is a long time to be without you, sugar, but what can I do?"</p><p>Mycroft contemplates his Gregory-free existence, and comes to a conclusion. A favour is asked, a favour is granted, and someone gets what they wanted. </p><p>I need summary writing lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing It, In Fact

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the last bit was a bit angsty for this series, but what's done is done. I'm fixing them on their own terms. 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thanks to all who read and enjoy, and show their love.

It has been six weeks since Lestrade and I…parted company.  I have come to a realization: I am unhappy without him.

I will confess that I did not come to this realization straight away. In fact, the day I left his flat, I decided that I’d had enough of the emotional nonsense that came with having a person of significance, and went back to my old routines. I figured that the memory of my relationship with one Gregory Ambrose Lestrade would be put out of my mind with little effort.

Two weeks into my “Gregory-free” existence, I found that some things are easier said than done. I had not given much credit to just how deeply he was entwined in my existence.

Purely by accident, (or so I maintain), I found myself watching surveillance footage of Sherlock assisting Gregory with a case near Battersea Station. There was something about the way Gregory’s head tilted that sparked an arousing memory that nearly caused me to lose my train of thought in the middle of speaking with the Home Office. (Thank goodness for being adept at multi-tasking) I shut down the feed, but the memory of hot nights, rainy afternoons, phone calls, and laughter stayed with me long into the night.

With grim determination, I cut myself off from the memories associated with that part of my life, just as I had done years ago under circumstances that were not nearly as pleasant, but emotional, nonetheless. I decided to focus on something other than Gregory Lestrade and just what he had come to mean to me. And how much I missed him – his laugh, his low, sexy voice, his mischievous voyeurism, and just his being my person of significance.

And so that was what I did. I buried my feelings, shut down the memory, and resumed my old habits. 

I began working long hours again, and sleeping very few. I ate even less than I slept, though I was very careful to hide this from Mrs. Landingham. I went to my club more often, reveling in the fact that I could sit in silence for hours on end and not be disturbed by a text or phone call. I drank fine scotch and socialized… well, only when absolutely necessary for work, but the tediousness of it kept my mind occupied. I prevented wars, started wars, planted rumours of wars, sent recalcitrant agents to faraway places for lesson-teaching purposes, crushed the opposition, and soothed my allies.

Unfortunately, it did nothing to calm my mind or ease my pain. I was miserable to the point of irritation, but no one was the wiser. Being a Holmes, I am an extraordinary actor, quite capable of providing illusions. I did not miss a trick, a conversation, an observation. I kept my composure, and handled meetings and dealings with aplomb. No one suspected anything because I missed nothing.

Well… except Gregory. I missed him with all my being. And as much as I hated feeling that way – it proved to be very distracting- I could not stop myself.

To go from the euphoria of having someone love me to the depression of knowing that I let Gregory slip through my hands, and that I could do nothing but relive this failure over and over was quite disturbing. Unlike Sherlock, I do not delete things, nor do I have anything as trite as a ‘mind palace’. I tend to set things aside to be dealt with at a later time. While this helps me immensely in my work, it is rather unhelpful when I truly need to forget something.

Immersing myself in work and relying on habits is usually very soothing and restorative, as it sharpens my mental focus, but to my dismay, working long hours did nothing but bring into sharp focus the fact that I was alone. No longer did I have someone to interrupt my day simply to hear my voice, to inquire as to what I was wearing, to describe in vivid detail how said items would be removed, to laugh with, to sit at my side and just simply…be was something that I could not fix by choosing not to acknowledge my feelings. This made me want to cry. (In frustration, of course.)

However, as I was told many times in my youth, a Holmes does not cry, and I haven’t shed a tear since…well, it was a while ago, and the circumstances were less than ideal. When a Holmes is confronted with a situation that cannot be fixed by logic and reasoning, a Holmes seeks alternatives, such as death faking, or coma. And when those alternatives fail, a Holmes simply detaches from the situation.

Given the dire straits of this situation, being a Holmes leaves me at a distinct disadvantage. I am not detached, nor am I feeling unemotional. While the coma option would surely send him to my bedside, it would most likely anger him more should he find out it was faked. (And I haven't the energy to fake a coma right now) Part of me wants to hit something, to take out my anger at the situation out on someone. I want to grab one Gregory Lestrade and shake some sense into him, and then in turn kiss him senseless. Not being able to do that, I want to be able to cry. I want to rend my garments and walk amongst the commonwealth unwashed, wailing about lost love. I want to drink wine straight from the bottle, and listen to sad music by aging blues singers.

I want Gregory.

Unfortunately, I am at a loss as to how to go about getting him back. I am an excellent negotiator, unmatched in the skill of observation and deduction, and if I must say so myself, frighteningly brilliant. But, I am bollocks at the softer emotions. I will even go so far as to say, in the vernacular of the day, that I suck – especially at love. However, that will not deter me from offering an olive branch to ease the tension that was surely building as he continued to work with Sherlock.

I can be very resourceful and determined when I set my mind to do something. As a way of easing my way back into his life, I decided to try fanciful ideas that I gleaned from women’s magazines in an attempt to pave the way so that we could at least have a conversation. Unfortunately, I, ah… underestimated two things: the depth of Gregory’s pain, and the futility of taking advice from a magazine that proclaimed “a hot spot your man didn’t know he had” on the cover. Flowers were trashed (with photographic evidence), candy was left to melt, (or given to Anderson to apologize to his long-suffering wife), tickets to matches donated to charity as prizes, and attempts at contact were thwarted at every turn. To date, the coffee maker and weekly delivery of coffee from Bolivia have not been returned, but I suspect that was more Sergeant Donovan’s doing than Gregory accepting my gift.

With frustrated resignation, I realized I was getting nowhere. Seriously out of my element, I decided to broach the subject with my resident expert.

“What am I doing wrong?”

Anthea sets the files she’d brought in on my desk. “Everything.” She grimaces, then adds, “Sir.”

I wave the formality away. “I’m asking, so obviously I want your opinion, not toadying.”

“Right. Well, to be honest, this is not going to be easy. It will take more than an apology, flowers or candy. This one is a big one, sir.”

“All rows are potentially big ones, right? Flowers are a good way to express feelings, or so I’m told. And tickets to see your favourite team from the front row… how can that be bad?”

“You are quite bad at this, sir. If you’d broken his heart by cheating on him, then flowers would be perfect, as would dinner and a match. That won’t work for a… ah, this type of heartbreak, sir. He is a moral man, and expected the same from you, though given the nature of your pre-romantic dealings, I am of the opinion that he was being a bit fanciful in his assumptions.” She clears her throat. “Not that you asked me, that is.”

“Go on,” I prompt.

“By standing him down, you hurt him professionally, and failed to treat him with respect. In short, you embarrassed him at work, and he thinks you’re an amoral bastard without a heart.”

I raise my eyebrows at her words, but do not chide her for her honesty and forthright speaking. “And this is why I cannot risk falling in love with him. Or anyone, for that matter. I can’t change the nature of my work for love.”

“Change, no. But sir… you were… you know that thing you do when one of the MI boys messes up? You did that to the Detective Inspector. And you know how you relish standing them down and making them squirm and feel like idiots? You did that, too. What you did is a bit like sending a bull mastiff to bite your mum just because you can.”

“I… did I?” If Anthea thinks it’s bad – and she’s seen it all- then it’s bad. “He can’t be treated differently because I hold him in ah, high esteem… should he?”

“It has been done. And by persons who wear crowns, and rule kingdoms.”

“Bugger,” I say, after pondering for a moment. “And now what do I do to fix it? Or can it be fixed? I have considered the matter from all sides, and it does not seem that there is a solution that does not end with me rending my garments, and going about unwashed.”

“You would not last an hour unwashed,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Far be it from me to tell you something that you already know, but there is only one way to fix this.”

I nod because she’s right, of course. I do know what it will take. Unfortunately…. “I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“It’s done. I cannot change it now.”

“You would only have to ask. Your request would require you to show humility, but you are as good an actor as any, and even if you weren’t, anything you asked for would be granted without hesitation. You have all this power at your fingertips – why not use it for something you want for once?”

“My position would be weakened."

“It would not. And those who balk can be sent to a team building seminar in the Arctic. Or Death Valley. We can do a spinning wheel and let them choose.”

A raised eyebrow is my answer to that.

“Well… here’s the ultimate question, sir. Which would you prefer – to be right and be alone, wandering about unwashed, or to give in and have someone to call in the middle of intense negotiations to ask you to describe in detail what you’ve got on?”

“Using your birthday gift on the giver is quite crass, my dear.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” She smiles. “Consider it, sir. If you need me to place the call…?”

“No, no,” I say. “Thank you. Once again, you have proved yourself invaluable. You and… Felix…”

“Philippe,” she corrects.

“…can use any of the tickets at my disposal.” He won’t last long enough for his name to matter, and she knows that I know exactly who he is, but it is our ritual. “Except the opera.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. Will you…?”

“I am weighing it. It would be an unorthodox request.  Questions would be asked.” I am hedging. With my personal assistant. How the mighty have fallen.

“One of your gifts is making sure that questions aren’t asked.”

“Yes.” I clear my throat. “Either way, thank you for your assistance.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll have tea and a sandwich tray sent up for you.”

“Just tea. I need to think.”

“Of course. Good night, sir.”

When the door closes, lean my head back, and close my eyes, breathing in and out slowly, focusing on the issue at hand.

Thirty-two minutes later, I open my eyes. A carafe of tea and a small platter of fruit are sitting on the side of my desk.

And I have resolved nothing. Bugger all.

I pour a cup of tea (already sweetened to my liking) stand up, and pace the length of my office. As I pace, I analyse the situation from every angle, and recall every word that was said on that fateful day. Anthea is right; I am going about it the wrong way.

“Well,” I say, taking a sip of tea. “Even a Holmes can be wrong. Occasionally.”

At midnight, six weeks to the day that Gregory left me, I pick up the receiver on the red phone on my desk and press the call button. Barely a second passes before it is answered. “Sorry to bother, but I need a meeting as soon as possible. Thank you.”

***

“I was under the impression that this matter had been settled.”

“It was. However, certain complications have necessitated a change in the way the matter was handled.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. Should we allow the matter to remain as it is, there would be irrevocable damage to our reputation, and it would send the wrong message to our agents.”

“To say that I trust your judgment is an understatement, Mycroft. I will provide the assistance you’re seeking, but I am curious as to why you have changed your mind. You rarely do so once you have made a decision.”

“True. However, in this instance, it would seem that the needs of the many is a more viable option. And my utmost concern was that we not sully the reputation of this office and that of Her Majesty.”

“Ah. Yes, well, there was a tremendous internal outcry, but I’m sure you know that already.”

“Yes. And you have my sincere apologies for failing to ensure that you were not bothered by the outcry.”

“Mycroft, for your skill at negotiation, I am alive and hold this office. What you’re asking in return is a drop of water in the ocean.”

“It was my duty, sir. And I think that my request today puts me in your debt.”

“Nonsense. Your request is for the good of the commonwealth; it does nothing for you personally. I gave you my word that I would grant you a personal favour in return for your assistance. Don’t deny me the opportunity.”

“That I could assist is a reward in itself. I do understand that it is a trivial request, sir, and it pains me that I am unable to handle it without your intervention. I appreciate both your time, and your consideration.”

“You can be very stubborn, Mycroft. And that is usually a good thing. But now… I find it extremely vexing.”

“Apologies.”

“Bollocks to that, because now you’re just toadying. Very well. A moment, please. _Yes. In regards to Operation Longfellow. Abort. Repeat, abort. Remove all cover, hand to local. On my authority, code zero-six-two-seven-nine-five. Advise that order seventeen is in effect, and full cooperation is expected. Have Stephanie handle legal and inquiries. Thank you._ Well, it’s done. I do hope to goodness you’re certain about there being no repercussions. Not that you are ever uncertain about anything, but still…”

“I am uncertain about many things, sir, but I have the good fortune of an excellent poker face. I do not anticipate that things will go awry, but there are various covers in place should we need them.”

“Mycroft… you wouldn’t be keeping the real reason from me, would you? Does this involve a case that your brother was working on?”

“I would not seek your assistance in regard to anything to do with my brother.”

“You shouldn’t clench your jaw like that.”

“My brother… even the mention of him makes me tense.”

“I can imagine. And just so you know, this resolves nothing between us. I remain in your debt.”

“You are not. I am pleased that I could ask a favour that was in your power to grant.”

“And so we are at an impasse.”

“Not at all, sir. You can also be stubborn on occasion.”

“Yes, you taught me well. However, while I am no great observer such as you or your brother, but you don’t seem yourself, Mycroft. I will not press, but if there is something you need to talk about, I have been told that I am an excellent listener.”

“Yes, you are. All is well. The situation in Greece is troubling, but I have every faith it will be resolved.”

“Very well, then. I expect to be kept abreast of the situation in Greece at regular intervals.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir.”

***

In the car, I let out a large sigh of relief, and send a text to Anthea with details on how this should be handled.

As I instruct the driver to take me to my club, I cross my fingers and hope that the deity who looks out for idiots in love takes note of what I’ve just done. Foolish, I know, but obviously logic and reasoning do not apply here.

***

I check my watch as I get out of my car. Half two in the morning. I groan and wonder where the time went. Throwing myself into my work has to be the worst remedy for a broken heart. With a sigh, I unlock the door to my flat, and find it already unlocked. Shit. If Mycroft is in here, I will die. Well, I’ll kill him first, then myself.

Then again, if it’s Sherlock, coming round to annoy me because he’s bored…

I push the door open slowly, and peer inside. “What the fuck?”

Anthea looks up from her phone. “You’re late, Detective Inspector.”

“Late?” I shut the door hard, and stalk toward her. “Late for what?”

An absolutely gorgeous blonde comes out of my kitchen, reading a file and holding a one of my better coffee cups. “Ah, Detective Inspector, you’re here. Good. I don’t think I can stand another cup of coffee.”

“What’s going on? Who the hell are you, and why are you in my flat? Where’s Mycroft, that bastard?” I take out my mobile, and… no signal. Fuck. “All right.” I look at Anthea. “What is it?”

“Stephanie Brown,” the blonde woman says, taking a seat on my sofa. “I work for the Ministry of Justice.”

“I don’t have any cases that involve the MoJ, and I don't appreciate you-“

“If you’ll just listen, Detective Inspector,” she cuts in, then offers a small smile. “Forgive my abruptness, but it’s been a long day, and you were expected home a few hours ago.”

“Crime doesn’t wear a watch.” I don’t even know why I’m explaining about being late to my own break-in, but there it is. “What is it you want? And why are you in my flat?”

“It goes without saying, Detective Inspector, that what I am about to tell you is strictly confidential, and off the record.” At my nod, she continues. “You were involved in the case regarding Howard Evans, correct?”

“Ah, this again?” I shake my head. “I let it go as ordered. What the hell more does Mycroft want from me? Bloody hell!” I pace a few feet, then turn around and look at Anthea. “Get him on the phone.”

“No signal.” She doesn’t look up. "Fruit Ninja.”

"Yeah, sure, a midnight raid on my flat to show off your game playing skills. My arse. Fine. What do you want from me, Stephanie Brown from the MoJ? Come to warn me from pursuing the case? I've been told, and retold. I'm out of it, all right?”

“You are very excitable, Detective Inspector,” she tisks. “As I was saying, the case against Howard Evans has been placed back under your jurisdiction.  Howard Evans will turn himself in to you at New Scotland Yard tomorrow… well, today at 10am. He will plead guilty to all charges. The files will be in your office after he appears in court, but I am sure you won’t need them. You and I will hold a joint press conference announcing the capture of the murderer. The Holcomb family and their solicitors will be in attendance.”

“But…” I feel light-headed, and take a deep, calming breath. “I thought - I was told... what the fuck is going on? I thought his cover couldn’t be broken.”

“Information regarding the mission is on a need to know basis. However, I can tell you that the mission has been aborted.” She sips at her coffee and smiles tiredly. “At the highest level.”

“He’s MI6. He can’t just go to jail.”

“The Home Office has disavowed any knowledge of him and his mission, Detective Inspector,” Anthea says. “I’m sure you watch telly, and have heard that a million times…?”

“Why?” I run a rough hand through my hair. "The official report is that the murderer got away. The family hasn't said anything, have they? This doesn't make sense. Why would he confess when he had all of the British government on his side?"

“He’s a murderer, and obviously his guilty conscience got the better of him,” Stephanie says simply, and finishes her coffee. She sets the cup back on the table, and stands. “I shall see you in the morning. Please get some sleep. You look like hell, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg,” I correct. “If we’re going to be posing for photos together, we should be on a first name basis, Stephanie.”

“Greg,” she says, laughing. “What a charmer. Please don’t be late. And be sure to include Sergeant Donovan on your team. She’s very photogenic.”

Anthea stands and takes up her briefcase. “Mr. Holmes is incommunicado for the next three weeks, Detective Inspector. The situation in Greece has his full attention at this time.”

“I haven’t… we’re not… yeah, all right.”

“If you would be so kind as to wear the suit in the garment bag in your closet.” She pats my shoulder as she passes. “Henry assures me that it will make you look less... gaunt and haggard. It would also help if you put some cucumber slices on your eyes to make them less bloodshot and puffy.”

“I don’t look haggard!” I protest. “And I don’t have any cucumbers.”

“You look quite haggard,” Stephanie says.” Still handsome, but you look like you’ve been through the ringer. I think it will work well tomorrow. Make it look like this case took its toll on you.”

“It did.” I shove my hands in my pockets and try my best to look nonchalant, for all the good it’ll do me. Anthea’s eyes are too knowing for it to work on her.  

“Not just on you,” Anthea murmurs.

My head jerks up in response, and I open my mouth to say something, but I know that anything I say will make me seem crazy, so I just nod and say, “So… cucumbers?”

Anthea narrows her eyes, gauging my response. She sighs softly, then says, “Yes. There are cucumber slices in your freezer. Put them on your eyes for a bit, but not too long. And for the record, he looks just as bad. You have no idea what this has done to him. Or what it cost,” she says, giving me a hard look.

“Yes, I do.”

The door clicks shut, and I sit there, wondering what the hell just happened.

***

The press conference resulted in a media frenzy. Evans seemed a bit off when he turned himself in, and I'm sure that was due to some type of drug to keep him docile, but I didn't care. That murdering sod deserved everything he got. Stephanie Brown handled the questions with aplomb, presenting Evans as a troubled man who simply snapped one day due to various stresses that she hinted would come up at trial. I knew there would be no trial, and that Howard Evans would be exiled, or worse. And I didn't feel a shred of guilt that he might be taken somewhere and have his feet beaten until he couldn't walk, then dropped off on a deserted military base with a pack of gum and a ball of twine for company. For what he did, he deserved whatever punishment he got, and I hoped it would be horrible.

The Holcomb family was ecstatic. The brother, uncle, and father took turns squeezing me and crying on my shoulder after the conference. I was glad that they could get the closure they were seeking, and that no one had rescinded the order to compensate them handsomely.

Once I got home, the realization that this was Mycroft, and that he had changed his mind hit me like a sack of grain. No one would say it outright, but I knew he had done it for me. The thought terrified me, and it made me wonder just what he had to do to countermand the order. I don't know enough about what he actually does for the British government to speculate just who he had to ask, but I'm sure it was high up.

I should be happy. I should call Mycroft and thank him for changing his mind… but Anthea said he was incommunicado for three weeks. Just to me? Was she warning me off?  Or did he tell her to say it?

I hate this.

I was pissed off at him, at myself. Angrier than I’ve ever been. I expected too much, let myself be lulled into a false sense of security, lulled into thinking that we wouldn’t clash professionally, that if we did, it would work out because I loved him.

Well, yeah. That was a crock of shit.

I think it hurt more because of our relationship. I expected too much from a man who wasn’t used to giving anything. And now look at me.

Can’t eat, can’t sleep, post piled up on the table unopened. Working long hours, falling asleep at my desk, unfocused, clumsy, and really don’t give a shit about anything.

I thought I would be fine without him, be able to walk away without looking back. And I would have, if I didn't still love him. And that was the problem. I loved the hell out of him, and I couldn't just put him out of my mind. It wasn't an ideal relationship by any means, but he made me smile more than I thought possible. I thought I'd made him happy, too... maybe I did, and he was afraid to show it. Shit, this is such a fucking mess. His stupid flowers and candy, the tickets to the match - it meant nothing without some type of change of heart on his part. To see that he was wrong to do what he did.

And now he's gone and done this. And not only did he change his mind, he changed the entire mission because… I don’t dare think it was because of me, but Anthea’s comment about what it cost is bugging me. How could it cost anything? A countermand of an order, and all is right with the world. I’m sure it’s done… not all the time, but surely occasionally. Well, maybe rarely, but he did, and now… what?

I should call him. No… text him, because if I hear his voice, it'll break me. Okay, so a text. And say… what? ‘Thanks for changing your mind’… no. ‘Good job showing that you’re not an amoral bastard without a heart’. Too much. ‘Well done you’. Yeah, right.  Maybe a simple ‘thanks’ would be okay, considering the circumstances. He probably won’t even see it, but I could try…

No. I said too much that night, and the look on his face when I told him I couldn’t… I’ll never forget it. I didn’t think I could hurt him. Well… I knew I could hurt him, but I didn’t think he would show me that he was hurt.

I settled on the sofa with a bottle of scotch, and debated what I should do.

After a few hours contemplation, and a half a bottle of scotch sloshing in my stomach, I decide to send a text.

**Thank you – GL**

I didn’t get a response, but then I didn’t really expect one.


End file.
